


Waking Up

by moonflowers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: ALL the awkward, Drunkenness, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to bad weather, Thomas and Jimmy get stranded at the village pub for the night. Unfortunately, there's only one room (and one bed) left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> For catthetamedshrew's 'sharing a bed' prompt. I haven't re-read this since I posted it on Tumblr, hopefully the mistakes are minimal.

“So, how is everyone?” said Alfred as he set his pint down. 

“Same as ever,” said Thomas, with the distinct feeling that the evening was going to drag horribly.

“Good,” Alfred looked across the table to Jimmy, as though he might provide a more detailed account. Good luck there. “That’s good,” he continued when it was clear Jimmy had nothing to add. “And Daisy? I haven’t heard from her for a while.”

“It’s because she’s busy, you dolt,” Jimmy sipped his pint, “barely has time to wash the pastry off her fingers. Or have you forgotten what it’s like already?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then. Stop asking daft questions.”

“You could just go up to the house yourself and ask her you know,” Thomas said. Mr Carson certainly wouldn’t mind, if his irritating fondness for the ex-footman still held, and it would save Thomas the bother of having to sit through this drivel all evening. 

“I suppose I could look in before I get the train back…”

“Good, glad that’s settled,” Jimmy cut in, “now, tell us about London. Anything worth knowing?”

“I don’t get that much time off you know,” Alfred frowned, “and even if I did, I doubt I’d spend it in clubs and the like, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Jimmy rolled his eyes and took a considerable gulp of his drink. Thomas forced himself not to follow the movement of his throat as he swallowed. He tried to keep such things for when he was feeling especially low. 

“I’ll tell you what did happen the other day though,” Alfred brightened considerably, and launched into an epic retelling of the night some restaurant patron had personally complimented him on his consommé or compote or some other foodstuff Thomas couldn’t give two straws about.

~

He was only there because of Jimmy. Surprise surprise. Alfred had written a few weeks back to say he’d be up to visit his old dad’s grave, and wondered if he might look in at the house. He’d been told yes of course, though Downton was all of a flutter readying for guests due the next day for a small pre-Christmas party, and Alfred was staying at the pub instead, out of the way. Unexpectedly, Jimmy had asked permission to walk down to the village and see him that evening. Thomas suspected it was more the promise of few drinks and stories of London life he was after, rather than to catch up with Alfred himself. Well bully for him, Thomas had thought; if he wanted to freeze his arse off going down to the pub for what would probably be a painfully boring evening with Alfred, then it was no skin off his nose. But things were never that simple, especially where Jimmy was concerned. Thomas had made some offhand comment about making sure to wrap up warm walking down to the pub, and Jimmy had looked across the table at him, eyes wide and head tilted like a bloody puppy.

“But… you’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“What do you think?” said Thomas flatly, looking back down at the paper so he didn’t have to see his face.

“Oh come on, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Jimmy, and against his better judgement Thomas looked up. Jimmy was scowling at him now – Thomas had never known someone whose face could shift and rearrange so quickly and so drastically. Or maybe he’d just never looked at anyone so closely before Jimmy. 

“If you want to waste your evening swapping stories with Alfred, that’s none of my business,” he said curtly. “And don’t go thinking I’ll drop everything just to please you.” But after ten minutes of bickering, that’s exactly what he did. 

~

Thomas finished off his pint, just as Alfred finished a horribly dull anecdote about petit fours. He’d have preferred something stronger to drink, but Alfred had offered to get the first round, and he was hardly going to say no.

“I’ll get the next lot in,” he said, before Alfred could get back up to the bar. 

“Oh,” Alfred smiled uncertainly, “thanks.”

“Something a little stronger for me please, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy said, with the pleased little look he got on his face sometimes when he knew he was pushing his luck.

Fortunately, things began to ease up with the next couple of drinks, and the three of them were chatting and teasing each other more good naturedly than they ever had while Alfred was still at Downton. They were all three sheets to the wind, and it was long past the time Thomas and Jimmy had planned to leave the Grantham Arms when the landlord shuffled over.

“I hope you gents weren’t planning on going back up to the house tonight,” he said with concern.

“What’s it to you?” Jimmy said rudely, and Thomas stifled a laugh. Jimmy tended to go one of two ways when he’d had a few too many – either he was loud and rude and spoiling for a fight, or he got terribly drowsy and lost all sense of personal boundaries. Thomas wasn’t sure which was worse; both were tiresome for their own reasons. 

The landlord gave him a look worthy of Mr Carson himself. “It’s been snowing steady for the past hour and a half, and now the wind’s picked up. There’s no way you can get back up to the house in that.”

“Bugger,” Thomas said, at a loss for something more useful. 

“Mr Carson won’t be too happy with you,” said Alfred unhelpfully, the flush that came with drinking an unflattering shade next to his hair. Thomas had never been much for redheads. 

“Bloody useful you lot are,” Jimmy scowled, but it was without venom, and he looked decidedly sleepy. He yawned, and the sight made Thomas suddenly tired himself. It was harder not to look at Jimmy so much when he’d had a bit to drink. He was too warm, his body heavy with drink, and there was only one solution he could think of for now.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any rooms going for the night?” 

~

It turned out there was only the one room left. The little village was full of people coming and going and visiting family before Christmas, and the pub didn’t exactly have an abundance of rooms to begin with. They bid a sleepy goodnight to Alfred, and a very disgruntled landlord led Thomas and Jimmy to their room. It was tiny, with nothing in it but a single bed, a half-collapsed chair, a small cupboard and a washstand. The wall paper was the ugliest Thomas had ever seen. During his critique of the décor, it dimly registered the single bed may pose a problem. 

“Which of us is sleeping in the chair then?” he said a bit too loudly, to get the awkwardness out of the way and for the benefit of the landlord as he shuffled off down the hall. 

“Well it won’t bloody be me,” Jimmy said as they stumbled across the threshold. 

Thomas let it slide for a moment, shutting the door and realising that neither of them had any pyjamas, and damned if he was going to ask the landlord to borrow a set. Well, he could hardly sleep in his jacket and trousers, Jimmy or no. The footman appeared to have no such quibble, already stripping down to his undershirt and drawers, tossing his clothes down and letting them fall to the floor where they may. Thomas tried not to stare, but by the time his drink-addled head had caught up with itself, Jimmy had already crawled under the bedclothes.  
Hang on a minute. Thomas may have been stupidly, painfully, inexplicably in love with Jimmy, but that didn’t mean he was going to give up the bed without a fight – he was just as tired and drunk as he was, after all. And older; he wasn’t above playing the age card. 

“Oi you cheeky sod, who says you get the bed?”

“I do,” Jimmy said, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Well,” Thomas puffed out his chest, even though there was no one to see the gesture, “I’m your superior. I order you to give it up.”

“Give it a rest Thomas,” Jimmy bit back, all propriety melted away by cheap whiskey. “I just want to sleep.”

“So do I,” Thomas said, adding belatedly, “and that’s Mr Barrow to you.”

“Well get in the sodding bed then, Mr Barrow.”

“…What?”

“No one’s stopping you.” He couldn’t have heard him right, surely. They were good enough friends these days yes, but nowhere near enough for that. “So either shut up, or get in the bloody bed,” Jimmy grumped, and if Thomas wasn’t having a silent panic, he would have told him to watch his manners.

It would have been so easy to say yes, but even dizzy with drink, Thomas knew it was a stupid idea. “Jimmy, I’m not sure – “ 

“What, not sure you can control yourself?” Jimmy said nastily, and irritation flared up in Thomas’ chest. Spurred on by the drink, Jimmy’s words twisted into some kind of cruel challenge.

“I’m perfectly capable, thank you,” said Thomas as evenly as he could manage, though he quite wanted to throw something.

“If you say so,” came the uninterested reply, and Jimmy’s nonchalance made up Thomas’ mind for him. In silent anger, Thomas undressed, putting his clothes on the awful chair, from the ingrained habit of keeping things neat. He stood over Jimmy’s prone form on the bed, reminded horribly of that night a few years ago when his eagerness to love had nearly ruined everything beyond repair.

“Move over then,” he said, before he lost his nerve. 

With much fuss and an exaggerated sigh, Jimmy shifted over to the wall, and Thomas slid under the bedclothes next to him. He lay on his side, facing away from Jimmy, not daring to move in case he touched him. Easier said than done, when the whole ruddy room was spinning. He was as tired as ever, but how he’d ever get to sleep with Jimmy an inch away from him he didn’t know. 

“Oh for God’s sake,” Jimmy huffed and rolled over, “it’s like trying to sleep next to a corpse. Bloody relax, would you?” 

“Sorry your Lordship,” Thomas grumbled, and tried to do so. His shoulder bumped Jimmy’s, and he tensed again. 

“Hey,” Jimmy promptly elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Well you told me to relax,” Thomas said heatedly,” it’s not my fault this bed is the size of a matchbox.”

“Watch where you put your hand.”

“I had an itch you moron.”

“Well alright, but don’t – Ah!”

“What now?”

“Is that your foot?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“It’s bloody cold.”

“Give me strength,” Thomas muttered, and rolled over again. In doing so, his hand brushed against Jimmy’s backside. He braced himself for another onslaught, but none came. He was asleep. 

~

It was still dark when Thomas woke, which was probably for the best – the earlier they managed to get back up to the house the better. Less fortunate was the promise of a hangover pulsing behind his eyelids, and the rank taste in his mouth after too much to drink. He went to lift his arm to rub the sleep from his eyes, and found he couldn’t. Someone was lying on it. Jimmy was lying on it.  
Oh.  
The circumstances of their stay in the pub came crawling back to him with the horrible rolling lurch of recalling the details of a slightly questionable night before. He’d known that Jimmy could be needy when he drank, God help him, but it appeared he was a clingy sleeper also. Thomas lay on his back in the centre of the bed, Jimmy half atop him, Thomas’ arm trapped under his weight and Jimmy’s arm tight around his chest. This in itself was troublesome, and it only became more so when Thomas felt the tell-tale hardness against his thigh.  
Oh Lord. 

When his head finally caught up with his cock, he concluded that he really should move. The subject of sex had always been an understandably rocky one between them, and despite their friendship Thomas suspected that Jimmy still harboured some sort of ill feeling about where his tastes lay. Things certainly wouldn’t be helped by Jimmy waking up to Thomas’ rapidly growing erection digging in to his belly. But they were so close and their limbs tangled so intimately, that he had no bloody idea how he was meant to pry himself free without waking him. He hated himself for it, but as torturous as it was, it was hard to give up the accidental intimacy he’d likely never get again. And to put the icing on his cake of misery, he was tired and hungover and felt incredibly old, and he didn’t particularly wish to move ever again, never mind follow through the monumental argument that was sure to ignite when Jimmy woke up to this. 

Before he’d really decided what he should do, Jimmy was stirring. Thomas tensed, bracing himself for the probable disgust and definite anger about to come his way. Not that he’d actually done anything, this time. His arm tightened on Thomas’ chest, his fingers curled under his armpit. Thomas could feel Jimmy’s head tucked under his chin, his breath just as rank as Thomas’ from the drink, his lips warm and dry on Thomas’ skin as he buried himself against his neck. More than anything in the world, Thomas wanted to run his hand through Jimmy’s hair, hold him, and fall back to sleep until the sun came up. But then Jimmy shifted, pulling himself closer as though he’d heard Thomas’ thoughts. His cock pressed against Thomas’ leg and he moaned quietly on the edge of consciousness. A heavy roll of want lurched through Thomas’ body and settled in his stomach, closely followed by a twinge of guilt – not something he often felt – because Jimmy was still half asleep, and he would really rather not have a perceived repeat of last time. 

Too late.

Thomas watched as Jimmy blinked himself awake, looking supremely grumpy and worse for wear. He frowned at Thomas, more confused than upset, as though trying to recall just how this ludicrous set of circumstances had arisen. He continued to stare, not moving, until Thomas had to look away. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he said dryly, attempting to lighten the mood, though his voice came out low and hoarse. 

“But it’s dark,” Jimmy said groggily, and lifted his arm from where it lay across Thomas’ chest to push his hair out of his eyes. Thomas felt its absence more than he’d thought possible.

“It’s December,” he said. “And we need to get back up to the house.” He shifted his arm pointedly, and Jimmy sat up. 

“Sorry.”

“No harm done,” Thomas stretched his arm, thankful it hadn’t been his bad hand Jimmy had lain on.

“How are we meant to get back though?” he squinted at the window, as though he expected to see the sun come up and melt it all away to summer. “It’s the bloody Arctic out there.”

“It’ll be cleared sooner or later,” Thomas said, starting to hope he’d gotten away without the sulk from Jimmy he’d been expecting, “and Carson’ll expect us there and ready to work as soon as it is.” 

Jimmy snorted and stretched, lines of his chest shifting under the fabric of his undershirt, and Thomas tried not to salivate. The footman froze, a flush across his cheeks and creeping down his neck as he shifted uncomfortably, placing his hands across his lap in the most obvious way imaginable, though Thomas assumed it was meant to be nonchalant. Jimmy wasn’t gifted in the art of subtlety. 

“You, uh, you hungover at all?” Thomas said, more to break the silence and to distract them both than anything else; he obviously was hungover.

“I – I feel rotten,” Jimmy said, still squirming under the bedclothes, “but I can manage. You?”

“I’ve felt better,” he tried to smile, eyeing his clothes on the hideous chair. “I suppose we’d best get ourselves sorted. Is the bathroom along the hall?”

“Yes, thank God. I can’t stand outside loos anymore, and I’m fit to bloody burst, here.”

“Go first then, if you’re that desperate,” Thomas said. “I’ll tidy myself up a bit in here.”

“No,” said Jimmy harshly, and Thomas looked at him in surprise. 

“Why not?”

“I, uh, I’m not really that desperate. I can wait.” His eyes involuntarily flicked down to where his hands covered his lap, and Thomas felt his own face get hot when he realised the cause of Jimmy’s reluctance to get out of bed.

“I – would you like me to go first?” he offered, despite being in a similar state. 

Jimmy nodded. “Thanks.”

Thomas hauled himself off the mattress, careful to keep his back to Jimmy as he pulled on his shirt and trousers, in case he bumped into anyone in the hall. He held back a hiss as he fastened his trousers. He shuffled down the corridor to the bathroom, which was blessedly unoccupied. The chill of the morning served to calm him down somewhat. He relieved himself, splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth out, trying to neaten his hair. He’d have to shave and wash properly when they got back, if he had the time. Well, Mr Carson would make sure they were presentable, one way or another.  
It was one of those days he felt incredibly old. They happened every now and then, when some of the maids or hall boys were making eyes at each other, or his hand was playing up in the cold. Granted, this morning was a wildly different set of circumstances, but the feeling was the same. It had been waking up next to him. Waking up to see Jimmy relaxed in sleep inches away from him, hand curled in the sheets. It was dazzlingly intimate, and he felt, more keenly than ever, that it was something he’d like to wake up to every day for eternity. He’d known for years now that he loved Jimmy, but that morning it hit him harder than ever that he craved a real relationship with him, as good as marriage, all the petty arguments and making up, and anniversaries and a home and even a bloody house cat, if Jimmy wanted one. And it was that that made him feel old. It was a far cry from his first ‘loves,’ when sex had been the ultimate expectation. 

When he got back to the room, Jimmy was sitting on the bed, fully – if sloppily – dressed. The room was stuffy, and smelt a bit… well, it smelt as though two grown men had slept off the worst of a night of drink in it, warm bodies and stale alcohol. But there was something else too; something both sharp and musky, and absolutely unmistakeable. Jimmy looked up when he closed the door, face flushed and hair a mess, and Thomas wondered if Jimmy knew how obviously the room smelt of sex. 

“I’ll just go and…” he trailed off, avoiding Thomas’ eyes as he shuffled out of the door. 

“Right…”

Flushing himself with the knowledge that Jimmy had clearly just brought himself off after he’d left the room, Thomas made himself cross the floorboards to open the window, in an attempt to air the room somewhat before the maids came in. There was a part of him, an irrational and overly optimistic part no doubt, that wondered if Jimmy had been thinking of him while he did it.


End file.
